


Long Past

by Ezlebe



Category: American Made (2017), Logan Lucky (2017), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: M/M, On-Again/Off-Again Relationship, Porn With Plot, Reunions, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:15:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ezlebe/pseuds/Ezlebe
Summary: “Shit,” Clyde curses, drawing the whiskey bottle back and up the right direction, watching money more than liquor dribble down the bar and into the cracks. “I –shit. Hey there, Monty.”“Logan,” Monty says evenly, leaning forward slightly over the bar. It might only be imagination, but he looks… disappointed, a tight smile crossing his lips before he looks down at the mess. “Sorry to surprise you.”





	Long Past

Clyde hears the door clang and greets by rote, steadily nodding to Dave while he goes on another spiel about dogs and schoolkids. He listens to the newcomer settle onto a stool at the bar just as he manages to escape, pulling whiskey on a guess while offering Dave promises to pick up again once he got the other's drink poured. He turns around with a friendly nod, only to startle so bad he hits the edge of the counter and it spills over.

“Shit,” he curses, drawing the bottle back and up the right direction, watching money more than liquor dribble down the bar and into the cracks. “I – _shit_. Hey there, Monty.”

“Logan,” Monty says evenly, leaning forward slightly over the bar. It might only be imagination, but he looks… disappointed, a tight smile crossing his lips before he looks down at the mess. “Sorry to surprise you.”

He looks different from the last time Clyde saw him – little anxious, tired for sure, but the most obvious thing is the _beard_. He grows it in real well, apparently, which Clyde could have guessed from various shit weeks in the desert, but he had no idea this well.

Kinda emasculating, really.

“No apology needed,” Clyde says, hearing the words awkward from his mouth and looking down while he trades the whiskey for a rag, sopping up what he can before it dries sticky.

Monty offers a click of his tongue and a predictable shift in conversation. “This place looks better than the Facebook pictures.”

“I, uh,” Clyde gestures vaguely, throwing the rag and stiffly grabbing a glass to put in front of Monty just to have something to do, thankful the prosthetic doesn’t crush it with as tense the muscle is controlling it. “Bought it. Recently.”

Monty quirks a brow, eyes noticeably dropping, “Neat.”

“You still prefer brandy?” Clyde asks, mostly as courtesy while he reaches up for a bottle of Hennessy that he rarely opens; he wants to offer a nicer blend, but, well, he doesn’t really _have_ any.

Monty answers with a low, courteous hum, angling the glass for the liquor to pour.

It gives Clyde a few seconds to stare, tracing the angles of Monty’s cheeks and down to the typically twitchy tips of his fingers. He manages to keep from flinching a second time when grey-green eyes glance up, catching his own sharply and with typical intensity.

“Business owner,” Monty says, a little too careful bringing his glass up to his mouth. He’s quiet for a pause, then exhales, “That’s impressive. You have a real house and someone at home, too?”

Clyde shakes his head, anticipation already prickling under his skin and threatening to spill far more than liquor out across the bar. “But got the trailer to myself. Probably a better place to catch up.”

Monty nods slow, like he’s really _thinking_ about it after coming all the way out here. “What time you off?”

“2AM,” Clyde says, rolling his lips together and leaning forward on the bar, nudging his fingers up against a narrow wrist. He swallows at the warmth he finds there, reluctant for his next words. “I can meet after. Or tomorrow, if you got time.”

“Tonight’s fine,” Monty says, gaze steady as he stares back under his lashes, then a smirk flickers across his mouth. “Mind giving me keys to the place, then, if I don’t feel like hanging off the bar for the next three hours?”

Typical Monty – give him an inch, he takes a mile.

“Sure,” Clyde says, taking a step back and crouching, reaching into his jacket under the counter with an awkward bend of his elbow. “I don’t got much to steal.”

“What I want isn’t there yet anyway,” Monty says, finishing his drink with a gulp and an actual wink. He lets the glass smack onto the bar with a thunk, then stands, prompting holding his hand out. “2AM.”

“Need to jiggle the lock,” Clyde says, setting the keys in Monty’s palm, turning his hand just slightly into the stroke over his knuckles. “Sticks.”

Monty hums shortly, nodding with a tilt of his head and looking down at the keys. He starts working at them oddly, though it becomes obvious on what when he singles out the key to the Grand Prix and starts unwinding it from the ring. “Here,” he says, unceremoniously reaching out for Clyde’s hand and pressing the key into it, holding it for a fleeting squeeze. “Drive safe.”

Clyde feels heat settling with a prickle along his jaw, and clears his throat. “Try to.”

“Don’t try,” Monty says firmly, dropping his hand and taking a slow step back to the door. He waves with two fingers, almost mocking, before he turns on his heel to walk proper for the last few feet.

A clang and footsteps echo from the creaky porch steps, then fade, leaving Clyde torn on the rest of his shift. He could’ve done to keep Monty’s company longer, a lot longer, but now there’s knowing he’ll be _waiting_ back at his place… That’s something distinctive altogether.

A wheezy cough breaks the moment. “He red all over?”

Clyde looks sideways through the corner of his eye, prompting his mouth to flatten and setting his jaw in tight.

Dave wilts right off, putting both hands up in drunken surrender.

* * *

Clyde does his best to open the door loud, trying not to be startling, only to pause half-way in, absorbing distress when he realizes there's no car in the drive and the house is empty. He closes the door with a hard bite into his lip, turning and catching a glint at the corner of his eye – his keys on the counter. Monty did come by.

He shakes his head slightly, reaching up for the button at his neck and walking toward the sofa with a grimace. He must have been too long cleaning up – nearly 3AM, now – and wonders if Monty got bored or if his schedule were just that tight. He reaches out and taps the front light off, only to freeze, hearing a creak just behind him; he drops both arms and peeks to the sofa just under him, knowing he’s got a handgun behind it, but it’s not loaded, and a – _Wait._ He didn’t check the bedrooms.

Shit, he didn’t expect that – he’s hardly seen Monty sit still in a strange place, let alone known him to _sleep_.

He doesn’t turn around as the creaks get closer, but he does lean back when narrow hands slip around his waist.

“No weapon, Logan?” Monty says, his voice undeniably a little sleep-rough, then a waft of mint following it – that’s more than a little flattering. “Gotten soft.”

“Knew it were you,” Clyde says, looking down and unsteadily resuming his popping buttons on the shirt. The prosthetic spasms oddly when he forces it to do the next one; he still needs a little practice with the gestures.

“Sure,” Monty says, idly helping along with the final button at the bottom.

Clyde hums lowly, and the question that’s been on his mind all night rears forward. He’s hesitant to ask, but he’s got to know – he hasn’t seen Monty in years, hadn’t expected to again, yet here he is in his living room. “You just driving through?”

“Little more deliberate,” Monty says, pressing his face in close, nose a firm line against Clyde’s nape, then a pair of lips soon following with a heated press through his hair. “I came here.”

Clyde stares out the dark window a moment, studying the dim reflection of Monty just behind him, then nods with a single drop of his chin. “Alright.”

“I’m surprised, though,” Monty says, hands slipping up the front of Clyde’s tee, shamelessly teasing at his nipple in a manner that leads a jolt straight to his dick. “That new hand and the bar, yet still living at home? At least your brother isn’t here.”

“Yeah, it was – ” Clyde tilts his head while Monty presses a second kiss to the other side of his neck. “Something of a windfall. He moved down to Lynchburg.”

“Charming name,” Monty says dryly, his amusement made palpable with the curl of his lips.

Clyde huffs himself, taking a reluctant step forward to pull off his shirts. “Yeah, well.”

He turns around when a pair of fingers shove at his shoulder, balling up the shirt in hand and thankful that it didn’t get hung on the prosthetic just this once. He tries for Monty’s eyes mostly to be coy, and instead catches a roving look across his face and down his chest, feeling heat prickle under his skin and out from that little place Monty touched him.

“It looks good on you,” Monty says, attention now turned on the prosthetic, fingers tracing around each of the man-made joints and into the palm, and what Clyde wouldn’t give to feel it. “Cool as fuck, Logan.”

“Thanks,” Clyde mutters, realizing suddenly that this is the first time someone else has really _looked_ at it – usually, he gets stares, a few compliments from the like of Mellie and Joe, but mostly people just seem to do their best to ignore it. “Got it pretty recent.”

Monty turns it over, tracing the logo on the back and continuing to study in that flat, uncomfortable way of his. “Does it do anything interesting?”

“Holds things good,” Clyde says, reaching down and popping the thumb to switch the grip, enjoying the little hum of interest that Monty offers at the simple movement. “Move the fingers on their own, so I can open like, a coke.”

“Anything _else_ , Logan?” Monty says, somehow making a simple swipe of his fingers over carbon fiber into innuendo.

“Haven’t jacked off with it or anything, no,” Clyde says, more surprised than he should be that Monty’s after that sort of thing. He’s definitely not going to admit he maybe thought about it once or twice, knowing Monty’ll jump on that as weak point for his own ends. “Definitely _not_ goin’ to tonight.”

Monty hums low, an exaggerated surliness twitching across his face.

Clyde huffs slightly, reaching sideways to start tugging at the fasteners, while ignoring the skitter of nerves at the back of his mind. He knows Monty doesn’t care, was probably the first person to touch the stump outside of the hospital, but some days he can’t even look at it himself.

“I _guess_ I’ll just have to fuck you, then,” Monty says, pretending at melancholy for a few words, then leaning in and settling himself heavy on Clyde’s shoulder for just a moment, squeezing at Clyde’s other arm with a weird grin. “But I’m saying this now, your bed’s a little uncomfortable.”

Clyde doesn’t expect to be so blindsided by the idea of Monty sleeping in his bed, in his _room_ , and barely manages to offer an agreeable mutter. “Old.” 

“Shut up,” Monty snaps, hunching slightly and retreating on his heel back toward the bedroom, only to pause halfway and throw a look backward tinged just barely with real embarrassment. “Oh, the bed.”

“You’re barely older than me,” Clyde says, tugging the hand off with a grimace and half-thankful for the weight off his shoulder. “Least that’s what you said.”

“And it's true,” Monty insists, peeling his shirt off just as he goes through the door, practically taunting when he disappears around the corner without even allowing for a better look.

Clyde grimaces slightly, turning toward the bathroom halfway down the hall and locking himself in on a whim, taking a minute before he can get too worked up. He stares himself down in the mirror for a few seconds, trying to ignore the way he looks tired or the threat of grey near his temple, speaking of old, but… But his recent stint in County helps a bit, since he had more time to think on how to work out without the hand, and practically had to being so bored. He might even look better now than he had last time he saw Monty.

And Monty doesn’t care. He wouldn’t be here if he did, instead would’ve picked someone up rather than taking time to come down _deliberate_. It’s what Clyde tells himself anyway, refusing to get more nervous, as he tugs open a drawer to reach in for a bottle, half empty but enough for the night. He cleans himself up with a little too-cold water, then almost gets distracted with a head-start using the lube for its purpose; he don't know how long they got tonight and he's been impatient for hours. 

Monty is on his phone when Clyde gets out, brow furrowed at something onscreen, though it can’t be too important, since he practically throws it sideways onto the plastic drawers Clyde’s been using as a night stand. He’s also naked, half-hard, but not quite spread out like he might’ve been if Clyde hadn’t taken a detour, though the angle of his hip highlights an old scar that is not going to be brought up tonight.

He catches the lube when Clyde throws it under hand, glancing to the bottle with a blink. “KY? I thought you branched out last time.”

“You brought that,” Clyde says, taking the long way around and nearly tripping over a… a _bag_? He stares at it a beat, then decides that ain’t being brought up either, too easily distracted by a hand groping around his inner thighs. He bites the inside of his lip as Monty’s fingers slip up even higher, pressing at his hole, and holds still a few seconds with his hand hovering over a strip of condoms in a little two-drawer box. He swallows hard, ripping one off. “Said you got it from the internet.”

“Forgot that,” Monty admits, slinking down in the bed when Clyde moves to straddle him, gasping and sure hard enough now for the condom to slide on easy; his brows go up and a smirk settles across his mouth. “You gonna ride me?”

“If you want,” Clyde says, with no care one way or the other except it makes the angle a little difficult to balance, but he’s got practice with Monty, who’s always been unashamed of preferring to get his dick wet while being held down. “Long as you actually join in rather than making smart comments.”

“I can do both,” Monty says, tongue pink and distracting between his lips as he gropes up along Clyde’s chest, grabbing like he’s got tits to take hold. “You just look so good.”

Clyde tries to pretend the talk doesn't still put him off balance, like nothing's changed, feeling heat burning up his chest while he ruts down with a few slides of his dick against Monty's. He sits upward with a swallow when Monty reaches down between them, suddenly  _too_ eager somehow, and bites down a moan when the blunt head of a slicked cock presses up into him. Fuck, it's been too long, and not only in regards to Monty.

“Damn,” Monty mutters, always talking, even now as he stretches Clyde wide open, sliding in deep, only eased in by a pair of thrusts. He’s sitting up just slightly, eyes firmly between them in the usual bid to watch his own cock. “You look so _good_ like this.”

 “Hush,” Clyde says, exhaling a shaky breath and pushing Monty down flat on his back. 

“And fuck, Logan,” Monty gasps undeterred, as Clyde starts to ride him, fingers digging down hip to knee into flesh with the promise of bruises. “Look at those thighs. Beautiful motherfucker.”

Clyde shakes his head against a worsening blush, rolling his hips with a muted groan and leaning down forward, arching his back to keep the angle while better quieting Monty with his palm. He stops moving then and just lets Monty thrust up into him, feeling a shift underneath him that turns to a perfect drive of cock against his prostrate. A glance down forces Clyde to confront Monty’s half-lidded eyes, fixed upon him while lips move in muffled, continuing spiel under his hand; he’s going to fuck that smart mouth in a few minutes. He has to - it's his favorite damned thing and he might not get another chance.

He drops down further to start mouthing against the ruddy slip of skin just near Monty’s ear, soft and free of beard. It’s growing on him some, and he does like the way it fills out Monty’s face and nearly makes him look his age. He curls his fingers against the edges of the scruff, trailing along from Monty’s ear to his throat, forgetting some about keeping his palm over that rude mouth.

He gets lost in the sensations a bit, rough under his hand, soft between his thighs, hard pressing up into him; he rolls his hips against every thrust upward, and groans, clenching his hole in something like reflex when Monty starts alternating between slapping and squeezing his ass. He sits back up after a minute or so for a better angle, chasing that intensity, while dropping his hand to tweak at a pert, pink nipple.

“Fuck, _fuck_ you’re so tight,”  Monty says, almost aggressive about it, one hand gripping tight at Clyde’s ass while thrusting up with hot, angry little grunts. “This ass is goddamn perfect.”

Clyde feels his mouth twitch, shifting slightly and dragging moans out of them both.

“Want me to jerk you off?”

“Nah, gonna fuck your mouth,” Clyde murmurs, driving down against the noticeable buck upward at the suggestion, and groaning some at the jolt that goes through him. He tilts his head, trying to free some of the hair sticking sweaty at his neck, and catches Monty’s eyes; he feels new heat spread up his chest at the look in them.

“Oh yeah?” Monty asks, one of his hands releasing Clyde’s ass to take a featherlight hold around his cock, teasing from head to sac. “You think you can shove this big cock down my throat?”

“Don’t know how there’d be any trouble,” Clyde says evenly, or as best he can, "You got a big _mouth_."

Monty offers a choked laugh, practically a gasp, with a smirk unsteady at the corner of his lips. His hand tightens and starts loosely tugging at the same rhythm of their fucking, because he’s just got to be contrary.

Clyde stops toying with Monty’s chest to grab at his hand, reluctantly pulling him from his cock. “No, Monty,” he says, holding the hand against the pillow, enjoying that dark-eyed look upward; the quirk of a grin. “Keep going, darlin’, I’ll just keep you here.”

Monty’s pace stutters some, his other hand shifting from tight on Clyde’s ass to tucking into his hip, gripping hard while driving up in quickening thrusts.

“Come on,” Clyde says slowly, rocking his hips and looking down to get a better look into Monty’s eyes, with the side benefit of getting a better angle that has him seeing sparks. He tries to keep his voice steady, despite little, punching gasps that refuse to be entirely muted. “There you go.”

Monty comes with a grunt and a keen he tries to hide behind bitten lips, his final thrusts slow and deep, as if savoring. His eyes close and his breath slows, satisfaction curling plainly in his expression while his fingers clutch at nothing above his head.

Clyde lets go of that straining arm and leans down just as Monty re-opens his mouth, kissing him deep. He clutches at Monty's hair, scratching down his beard and drawing out his tongue to swallow more muttered praises until the sounds between them draw back out to loud gasps, but pulls back before the idea to just let Monty tug him off can get too tempting. 

He unsteadily shoves off the bed, regretful for it when Monty slides out of him, leaving him feeling empty and wanting, and wishes just slightly he’d let himself come while Monty was taking him. It’s only a brief thought, though, soon mostly replaced by anticipation that pulses through him when he reaches back into the little drawer. He stares at the condom for a beat, his cock heavy and distracting, then grudgingly follows through – he really has no damned clue what Monty’s been up to, or up _in_ , making this frustrating less about cleanup.

By some predictable irony, he turns around to find Monty sitting up and reaching down, too damned impatient to wait.

“Hold on there,” Clyde says, folding the packet into his palm and reaching out quick to grab his Kleenex box, then shoving it out under Monty’s nose. “Don’t you just go making a mess, ain’t no hotel.”

Monty all but grumbles at the scold, but takes a tissue just the same. His eyes drop to Clyde’s hand a beat later, mouth pinching, “No flavored?”

Clyde grunts an insincere apology, ripping the condom open with his teeth; he don’t exactly keep fancy ones around for the random hookup.

Monty settles into the pillows shameless ease as Clyde moves to straddle him again, groping his back and teasing by wetting his swollen lips. “You better not break my collarbone, Logan.”

“That joke never been funny,” Clyde says, remembering the first time Monty convinced him that they’d both be into this, and they were, but breaking Monty’s bird-body has always been a worry. “And you know it.”

 “Always funny,” Monty disagrees, a lazy smirk stretching across his face. He turns his head, nosing against Clyde’s inner thigh, then suddenly his teeth sink into the sensitive flesh halfway up.

“Christ,” Clyde grunts, not quite jerking back, a little embarrassed to feel the heat in his face flare right back up with a prickle. He rolls his lips together, rocking forward over Monty’s head, and feels his pulse jump in his throat when Monty turns his face back up to practically kiss the head of his cock.

“Your dick, Logan,” Monty says, hands retaking their places squeezing at Clyde’s ass and thighs, “Is still the best I’ve ever seen.”

Clyde shakes his head as he reaches down, carefully directing his cock to slide easy between Monty’s lips and watching that perfect mouth widen around the shaft. He thrusts shallow, feeling a teasing tongue press and push against his cockhead before he passes it to meet heat at Monty’s throat. He pauses there, face burning when he feels the spasm of a choke, then starts to move, groaning when Monty jerkily bobs his head along. He shifts to balance with his arm against the wall, reaching down to take Monty’s hair in a firm grip and direct his head up at a better angle.

Monty gives in to it bit by bit, first by the loosening of his jaw and a slightest unfocusing of his eyes, then blinking slow against emergent tears that bead up and trail at the edges. His hand relaxes at the back of Clyde’s thigh, just under the crease of his ass, lax fingers following him back and forth.

Clyde gets sloppier as he gets close, snapping his hips every now and then, while listening to Monty gasp and choke under his cock, drooling messy with every drive down his throat. He finishes quicker than he’d like, halfway into Monty’s mouth and feeling like it’s the best place he’s ever been. He rubs Monty’s head while working through it, pitching forward only barely, before letting go and pulling out, watching Monty roll his head back to emphasize those pretty eyelashes and that swollen, red mouth.

Clyde climbs off with a slow exhale and a glance down, grimacing as he peels off the condom. He’s a little disappointed he didn’t get to mess up Monty’s beard, but the rare sight of Monty all relaxed is more than good enough  He wraps the mess in a tissue and throws it toward the trash, then turns back around and drags his hand down Monty’s chest, skin still ruddy. “Water?”

Monty shakes his head with a twitch of a smile, and a hand swipes hard to grab for Clyde when he tries to get up. It’s a little odd that he’s not more talkative after an orgasm, but maybe he’s been on the road a while.

“Alright, darlin’,” Clyde murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss at the corner of Monty’s upturned mouth. He wipes at Monty’s eyes, dragging his thumb under damp lashes and trying not to feel _too_ much pride. It’s real hard, especially with the lingering soreness that’ll probably last a while and the bruises he knows he’ll have for longer where Monty gripped him for a harder fuck. It’s probably the best he’s had in years, since the last time in a fleabag hotel down in Roanoke, except now he’s had Monty in his own bed.

He hates some that he’s still this damned head-over-heels, knowing Monty’ll probably up and bolt before morning. He can’t understand himself – he hasn’t seen Monty in what feels like a lifetime, yet all he wants to do even now is find those magic words that might just get him to stay.

He’s drawn from his thoughts when he feels something – fingertips – on his face, stroking light across his cheek, down his nose, even over his brow. It pauses a few seconds later, then the pressure disappears, and he tries not to be disappointed – Monty’s likely about to get up – but then those same fingers curl tight around his bicep. He peeks his eyes open to glance over, in case he’s about to be shaken awake, only to instead catch Monty setting his head down to follow, warm and a little itchy on Clyde’s bare skin.

* * *

Clyde wakes to find himself alone, the night before filtering in and then out with various aches, breathing slow while staring at the sunken ceiling and letting any idle hope go its way. He pushes up from the bed with a grimace, groping for some drawers, then sighs and looks for his hand, only to let his shoulders fall. He doesn’t exactly have anyone to impress, and it’s heavy as all hell in the morning, besides.

He approaches the door, reaching for the knob, only to pause – _coffee_. Did Monty leave it on? Aw hell, his luck, the trailer might’ve burned down. He shoves open the door harder than he usually might, then gets a bigger shock than if the kitchen had been in flames.

In front of a pair of mugs, half-naked and standing tall, is Monty in Clyde’s old shirt from the night before. He turns around, lifting one of them for a sip like it’s nothing.

Clyde thinks he might be hallucinating just a little bit. He swallows hard. “Morning.”

Monty glances down, raising an eyebrow. “Nice boxers.”

“Thanks,” Clyde mutters, refusing to look down and reaching out to take the other mug. He weren’t exactly thinking Monty would see the gaudy caution sign over his dick.

Monty gestures up to the shelf over the dining table with his coffee, crowded full of little things he got in the mail from names he didn’t recognize. “I didn’t think you’d keep any of that.”

Clyde follows the gesture with a glance of his own and takes a slow drink of the coffee, letting it settle in his mouth. He put that shit up there after Jimmy left, part of taking the trailer as his alone, and decides not to embarrassed – Monty remembering he takes coffee with sugar and no creamer is probably just as corny. He looks back down, catching Monty’s eye deliberate, “Not that I don’t appreciate the coffee, but… surprised you’re still here.”

“Shouldn’t be,” Monty says, his tone briefly light, as if about to bluff his way through like they’ve already had the conversation; fortunately, he seems to think better of it in the following seconds of awkward quiet. “I have found myself without a gig at the moment. So.”

“Oh,” Clyde intones, embarrassed to find himself staring for a beat, then clears his throat with a forced nod. He tries not to think too hard about the fact Monty came down here for his break, or if that might mean something. “Between assignments or…?”

“Burned,” Monty says, slinking over to the sofa and sitting down without a lick of modesty, his long legs stretching out naked and pale in front of him. “I went too far, but not far enough. Got the notice about three days ago.”

Clyde drags his eyes away from Monty’s thighs, trying not to get stuck halfway up; the hem of the button-up _barely_ covers him. “Anyone coming after you?”

“No clue,” Monty says, lips rolling together and head lolling to the side in some attempt at apathy. His voice drops, steady and only a little snide, while he stares at the wall of old Logan family pictures. “I’ve got ants under my skin, eyes at my back, voices muttering somewhere just out of hearing…” He pauses, expression suddenly losing the flinty edge and becoming more thoughtful. He takes a sip of his coffee and leans back in the sofa. “I had to do some paperwork, actually, might get some kind of severance, but I didn’t really have many friends among my coworkers. Or my superiors.”

“Your plans were always nutty,” Clyde says, slumping down onto the sofa and letting his leg rub up against Monty’s bare knee.

“But they _worked_ ,” Monty says, speaking quick and confident, then getting a little scowly while curling slightly in on himself. “For a while, anyway.”

It’s hard to imagine Monty without the agency attached – it’d always been part of whatever he did, even when it was hooking up with Clyde at bad hotels on the way down to Florida or what.

Clyde shifts his knee, knocking it up against Monty. “You going to go solo?”

Monty sighs melodramatically, whatever emotion that was unsettling him diminishing, but he still hasn’t looked back over to Clyde. “It may ruin your image of me, but I’ve been mostly a desk jockey since Iraq.” His nose scrunches, a clear tell, and he wets his lower lip before taking another sip of the coffee. “And I don’t really _want_ to run around stupid in the field for some warlord…”

“Well.” Clyde remembers Monty’s low words from last night, from just minutes ago, and hears them a little different. “Feel free to stay then.”

Monty smirks in response, though something relaxes in his eyes, too. “I was planning on it.”

“Should know,” Clyde says, pausing slightly, reluctant to admit it despite the situation being all deliberate, not shameful. “Was in prison for a bit just recent. Someone might ask if that’s how I know you.”

Monty goes quiet for a worrying length of time. “What the hell did you do?”

Clyde chews on his lip for a beat before deciding he may well go into it now rather than later. “Drove through a Perennial.”

“The gas station?” Monty asks, leaning back in the sofa with an incredulous huff.

“Well.” Clyde tips his head slightly, “Yeah.”

“And they threw you in _jail_?” Monty says, his tone hardening some like he’s about to start litigating for something that happened months ago.

“Didn’t have a license for a while there,” Clyde says, then tips his head slightly, and now not quite ashamed but maybe a little embarrassed. “Don’t got Mellie’s wiles or luck for when getting pulled over.”

Monty blinks at him, then glances out toward to the Grand Prix with a certain skeptical slant, probably wondering how it got over the speed limit, but Clyde'll show him that later. “I bet you didn’t even try.”

Clyde acknowledges that with a shrug, shifting against the sofa and tilting better toward Monty. He definitely hadn’t – any of the patrolman would’ve just thought he was trying to start a fight.

“Thought for a second there it was for robbing a bank,” Monty says flatly, voice dropping as he speaks a little too slow not to be suggestive.

Clyde offers his response in a low, dubious hum. He’s not distrustful of Monty, not exactly, but he doesn’t have much chance to play coy about this and probably won’t again.

“Suddenly coming into _a lot_ of money,” Monty continues, a particular smugness across his face as his eyes go low to trace down Clyde’s front. “No offense to your family, Logan, but… _Wait_.” He leans back suddenly and nearly sloshes the dregs of his coffee all over the sofa, then turns on his hip to look at Clyde again, staring hard for a beat, before shaking his head. “No, that – _No_.”

Clyde watches Monty get up and start to pace, expression twisting with an apparent internal argument. He grunts slightly and settles back into the sofa, taking another drink of the cooling coffee while waiting for it to level out; it turns out to be a good time to check out Monty’s ass through the shirt.

“Why didn’t you _invite_ me?” Monty eventually asks, his voice very near a whine as he stops in front of Clyde with an actual pout.

“Hadn’t seen you in years,” Clyde says, and that’s even the truth of it.

Monty keeps his frown for a few seconds longer, then drops it with a lengthy exhale and an assenting crook of his head.

“Not sure what you’d done, either,” Clyde says, mostly only able to imagine Monty bickering with Jimmy about procedure the entire time.

Monty leans back on a heel, hand briefly going to his chest in exaggerated offense. He lets it fall back to his side a beat later. “How’d you do it?”

“Jimmy’s got a weird knack for it – he’s the one to ask,” Clyde admits, because a lot of it had sounded like it would never work when he first heard it, knows Mellie thought the same, but now he’s got the bar and Mellie’s shop is all payed off.  “How you hear about it?”

“ _Everyone’s_ heard about it,” Monty says earnestly, an edge to his smirk as his hands gesture wide and flat, clearly encompassing some great swath of people. “It’s one of the FBI’s biggest, most recent failures.”

Clyde tips his head, nodding slightly while wondering again about the woman that had been in few weeks ago – he hadn’t recognized her, and she’d claimed otherwise, but she also had been real weird. An intense, fed-type, Monty-like weird.

He’d been a little into it.

“And you, baby,” Monty says, leaning down to stare from an even eye level, and with a look on his face that puts heat straight up Clyde’s neck, “Were part of it. I wish I’d dug up the file now.”

Clyde hums lowly, looking down at his empty mug before the flush can get any worse. “Would be nice to know what they got.”

“From what I heard? A lot of frustration,” Monty says, moving in with a suggestive shove of his knee between Clyde’s thighs, reaching up to wrap an arm around his shoulder. He inhales sharp only a moment later, mood wrecked when he nearly crushes Clyde’s balls by leaning too far forward to peer out the window. “Someone’s coming down the driveway.”

“Huh?” Clyde says, reluctantly craning his neck back to look out the shades. He catches a familiar truck parking alongside the Grand Prix, coming to a halt with a shudder, and curses his shit Logan luck.

“That your brother?” Monty asks, a surliness invading his previously charmed tone, as his hand tightens on Clyde’s shoulder. “I thought you said he moved?”

“He did,” Clyde mutters, watching Jimmy slam the truck door and start up the porch stairs.

Jimmy shuffles in the door with a bag in one hand and a styrofoam container in the other, dumping them on the table with a grumbling sort of murmur. He turns around idly, mouth opening to say something or another, and the shock that bursts across his face is probably more satisfying than rightfully should be under the circumstances.

He must’ve been out last night with Sylvia. She seems nice enough nowadays, was back in school too, but Clyde’s not sure what he thinks of her dragging folk she got grudges against into her blood van and forcing shots onto them after talking barely thirty seconds. It’s a nice enough service, and Jimmy _definitely_ needed a booster, but it’s damned weird way to get comeuppance.

Granted, Clyde probably shouldn’t be judging anyone’s methods of revenge with Monty sitting on his lap. 

“Damn it, Clyde!” Jimmy exclaims, once he’s taken a good minute to recover, one hand going to his hip in a near perfect imitation of Mommy, the other near knocking over whatever he’s dumped on the kitchen table as he gestures clumsily at Monty. “There is a naked – a _near_ naked man in my living room!”

“You don’t live here no more,” Clyde reminds flatly, reluctantly pushing Monty off and standing up from the sofa with a sigh; he should probably put a shirt on. And his hand.

“I – ” Jimmy scoffs, multiple times to many, his hand dropping limply to his side. “I come over.”

“Hope you enjoyed,” Monty says, leering some at Jimmy while he walks past, gesturing down his own front and straight to his scarcely covered dick.

Clyde flattens his mouth before the grimace can break across it; this probably the worst way Monty and Jimmy could’ve got introduced. He watches Jimmy continue to flounder a few seconds, then leans back to peer further past the kitchen and confirm that Monty didn’t even close the door to his room.

Worst, but probably the most fitting.

“Not your usual type,” Jimmy grumbles, leaning over to peer needlessly into Monty’s empty coffee mug. His next word is silent, looking back to Clyde with an exaggerated fold of his lips. ‘ _Mouthy_.’

Clyde drops his head in a nod, half-hiding his eye roll, then clears his throat and forces himself to look up with a gesture at the shelf near the window. A beam of sunlight bounces off a little burro with particular vengeance.

“Why’re you – aw, _shit_ ,” Jimmy says, then sighs heavily, hand falling to the table at his side with a thunk. “Clyde. You’re depressing me over my breakfast.”

Clyde shrugs some; trust Jimmy to be melodramatic about it. “Is that what that is?”

“It is,” Jimmy says, tapping at the styrofoam with a pair of fingers. “He bring anything else for your collection?”

“Just himself,” Clyde says, reaching out and opening the bag with an awkward, jerky tear down the side, then pulling out the topmost container.

Jimmy grunts while reaching for the container, popping it open to reveal some kind of gravy. “He staying long?”

Clyde chews on his lip for a beat, then tips his head. “Well. Might do to text first, next time.”

**Author's Note:**

> SHRUG I dunno. I have a stupid amount of affection for this pairing, and thanks to the Adjacent Month for encouraging me to finish something with these two. 
> 
> I can also be found on the [twitters](https://twitter.com/ezlebe?lang=en) at Ezlebe.


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